Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

‘Intriguing, though, isn’t it? Especially as it’s true. There are people — perverts — who like that sort of thing, you see, and I happen to be one of them. I require from you only directions to the prison at Wrigley Scrubs.’

  He blushed and nodded.

  ‘Easy, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I think I do understand.’

  Ignoge Brand was on duty at the gate when Habren’s car pulled up at Wrigley Scrubs.

  ‘Stark! Since when did you have a car pass, or an exeat? Anyway, you’re supposed to be in the infirmary with flu.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ said Habren. ‘I am Mrs Habren Gaunt, a director of Gauntco, responsible for the prison franchise, as of tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t come it, you fucking scrubber. I don’t believe you,’ sneered Ignoge. ‘You faked the flu and sneaked out, you dirty little sub, and Oswald’s buggered you so much, he’s got soppy and lent you his motor.’

  Habren showed her identification and Ignoge blushed, stammering apology.

  ‘You could be twins…’ she blurted. ‘You and Angarad Stark! I’m sorry, mum…she’sa real perve, that one!’

  ‘Which, I take it, you’re not. Would you please identify yourself?’ said Habren mildly.

  As she spoke, she turned to look at a gang of slags trudging through the morning fog; barefoot, they wore only bras and panties and shouldered shovels. The girls were roped together at the waist and at the wooden hobble bars enclosing their ankles. Their shuffling gait was accompanied by a tinkling of cowbells pierced, through the fabric of each girl’s bra, at her nipples. Some wore crotchless panties, with bouquets of goose feathers rammed inside their quims.

  ‘Top stroke — senior warden Ignoge Brand, mum,’ said Ignoge. ‘Those slags, I mean detainees, are a morning work party, going to dredge silt from the river.’

  ‘Tethered like animals? How shameful for them. And why the goose feathers?’

  ‘For blubbing, during a whopping. It’s penal policy, mum. We like to get them off early, before too many people see and get the wrong impression — well, I’m really sorry for any misunderstanding, and welcome to HMP Wrigley Scrubs, mum.’

  ‘And what would be the right impression, I wonder. Thank you,’ said Habren, accelerating her car so that slush drenched Ignoge’s stockings. ‘You may expect to see a lot more of me.’

  She drove to the governess’s lodging, stopped the car and got out, moving stiffly. Before she could ring the doorbell, the door opened and Miss Horsfall herself greeted Habren.

  ‘Mrs Gaunt! I…we weren’t expecting you so soon.’

  ‘I took the earlier train. May I come in?’ Habren said.

  ‘Yes, of course…please excuse the mess, we’re in quite a tizzy, preparing for a BBC camera crew to film this afternoon, and my cleaning slag hasn’t reported yet…I had to cane the last one for sloppiness…but I’m sure you don’t want to hear all the gory details just yet. Do call me Adelaide. I just adore your outfit, Mrs Gaunt. Only true beauty can carry grey.’

  With a slither of her seamed nylon stockings, Miss Horsfall, buttocks wiggling, led Habren into her living-room, with its leather furniture and bookshelf full of canes. Miss Horsfall said shyly that her guest must excuse her fidgeting in her seat as she had piles. Habren sat beside the governess on the sofa, after glancing at the well-chewed carpet behind it and the damp come-stains in front, beneath the imagined buttocks of a canee.

  ‘On the contrary, Adelaide,’ she purred, ‘the gory details are precisely what interest me. And your uniform becomes you admirably.’

  She placed her hand on Miss Horsfall’s nyloned knee.

  ‘Nylons…how wonderfully quaint. I have to make do with silk.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Mrs Gaunt.’

  ‘Habren.’

  ‘I am sure you would like coffee and biscuits, Habren,’ Miss Horsfall said, then lifted her telephone and placed her order. ‘Perhaps gory was the wrong word…’

  ‘Shall we say, “painful”?’ Habren interrupted. ‘Adelaide, I don’t think you need keep any secrets from me about the disciplinary regime here, for why else do you think I bought the place?’

  ‘Well, I — you are obviously a successful businesswoman, Habren, and a most striking one. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d swear you were the twin of one of our most…appealing detainees.’

  ‘May I say that if I resemble this Miss Stark, your own face is slightly familiar. I feel sure we’ve met before.’

  ‘Hardly. I am only a civil servant and I assume your takeover is for sound financial reasons…’

  Habren’s teeth glinted as she licked them.

  ‘Corporal punishment, Adelaide. I’m not a successful businesswoman, I am a successful actress and whore who married business: I met my husband Joss as a screen goddesss…he is my most adoring fan, a submissive wimp who loves to watch me done by other men, then receive a thrashing on the bare for his insolence. I direct and star in that sort of film. I trust you aren’t shocked.’

  Miss Horsfall smiled nervously, then licked her lips.

  ‘A prison governess is unshockable. Besides, insolence is discouraged here at Wrigley Scrubs.’

  ‘By what methods?’

  Miss Horsfall gestured at her cane rack.

  ‘We make no secret of our adherence to old-fashioned values, Habren.’

  Habren scrutinised the instruments of discipline, and complimented Miss Horsfall on her good taste, which Miss Horsfall received with a winsome smile.

  ‘What if a girl, this Angarad Stark, for example,’ said Habren, ‘is of perverted tendency and actually takes pleasure in being thrashed?’

  ‘Then we try to thrash her hard enough to dissuade her.’

  ‘Was that the case with Miss Stark?’

  ‘Not quite. She came, ticketed as a submissive pervert, and vehemently denied her true nature, but her time served has taught her to recognise it and accept canings which go beyond the limits of the pleasurable.’

  ‘But it is sometimes possible for a submissive pervert to switch and become dominant, given the necessary guidance of the rod?’

  ‘Assuredly, Habren,’ said Miss Horsfall, placing her palm on the back of Habren’s, still resting a few inches above her stockinged knee, ‘and, who knows, perhaps vice versa.’

  She placed her own palm on Habren’s thigh, revealed beneath her grey mini-skirt and with a peek of lacy pearl-white sussies.

  ‘I do hope you aren’t playing games with me,’ she murmured.

  ‘Do you?’ said Habren.

  Miss Horsfall blushed, wiped her brow and, in the same gesture, loosened her collar buttons, revealing creamy white breasts swelling beneath her tight bra. There was a scratching at the door and Miss Horsfall bade entrance. The door opened and a slag shuffled in, her ankles enclosed in a wooden hobble bar; she wore only a dirty bra and panties, stained at the gusset and carried a tray of elevenses by a rope held between her teeth. Her wrists were bound together in front of her pubis. She set the tray down on the coffee table by Habren’s knees and curtsied to both ladies, before withdrawing backwards. Her skimpy thong panties did not conceal the dark welts of a recent caning to the bare buttocks and haunches.

  ‘The detainee Ingrid Fage was rather naughty, I am afraid,’ said Miss Horsfall, pouring coffee. ‘She was caught smoking and assigned to servitude as penalty. Do help yourself to a ginger nut, Habren.’

  ‘Servitude!’ laughed Habren. ‘Not her only penalty, I imagine.’

  ‘There was a caning…’ murmured Miss Horsfall.

  ‘Bare-bum?’ said Habren, her teeth like blades, slicing her biscuit. ‘This is excellent coffee.’

  ‘Of course — to answer both your question and your compliment.’

  Habren began to take off her jacket.

  ‘May I? It’s rather hot.’

  ‘Please. You are, from tomorrow, my ow — my superior.’

  Habren sat in her white blouse, breasts thrust forward by an uplift scalloped bra allowing the tops of the nipple discs to be seen, and the plums h
ard, pressing through both satin bra and the sheer voile blouse. She crossed her legs, careless of her skirt’s riding up, and giving her hostess a clear view of her skimpily knickered pubis, white sussies and stocking tops. Somehow, another button of Miss Horsfall’s uniform shirt came undone, revealing her own, sterner bra cups, her breasts quivering flans, and the faint hillocks of her wide nipples in a state of engorgement. The two ladies sat, gazing, and sipping coffee.

  ‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Adelaide,’ said Habren.

  ‘You are more than a civil servant. You are a dominatrix of other girls. You have hit on a goldmine: a whipping prison for wayward but basically decent sluts.’

  ‘I’m pleased you should think me a girl, Habren, though I am of a certain age…but a goldmine?’

  ‘Rollo Cragg is on the board and, as acquisitions director of Gauntco, will continue to be,’ Habren said.

  ‘Dear Rollo! At Gauntco, too,’ said Miss Horsfall drily.

  ‘He is a most forceful man…’

  ‘Have you ever been caned bare-bum, Adelaide?’ Habren continued, before swallowing another biscuit, whole.

  ‘What…?’

  ‘In the past…or recently? As your new boss I have been open with you. Gauntco’s interest in Wrigley Scrubs is financial — my own, flagellant. Like you, I am a dominatrix, but a recent experience intrigued me. I wonder if switching is truly possible. Have you been caned on the bare?’

  ‘I suppose I should take what our American friends call the fifth amendment,’ whispered Miss Horsfall.

  Habren wiped her mouth of crumbs, smearing her fingers on Miss Horsfall’s stockings.

  ‘My question is prettily answered. Lift your skirt, miss, lower your panties, and bare your bottom to me.’

  Miss Horsfall did not reply, save by sighing with a rueful smile. She put down her coffee-cup, wiped her lips on a linen napkin, then rose, with her back to Habren. She bent over the sofa back and rolled up her skirt, showing her white sussies and knickers, over her black nylons. Slowly, she unfastened her garter straps, then rolled down her panties to mid-thigh, parting her bare fesses to show her arse-cleft entire, with the anal pucker spread and the tangle of cunt hair already moistened by juice from her pendant gash flaps. Habren whistled softly: the governess’s naked buttocks were seared with a crisscross of bruises from a heavy bare-bum caning, extending to flanks, top bum and underfesse.

  ‘Who did that?’ Habren asked. ‘That bum pucker isn’t swollen by piles, she’s been royally whopped.’

  ‘Isobel Coker, the new junior warden. She didn’t know it was me. I have a ruse…only my bottom is displayed for caning, with my head in shadow, and relaying my instructions tape-recorded, as though I am speaking from a distance — with this remote control.’

  She displayed the device and pressed keys, which flashed and beeped.

  ‘Now I do recognise you…from your arse. Your screen name was Bella Lafesse, wasn’t it? The most-caned bum in flagellant pictures, a few years back.’

  ‘May I replace my underthings, Habren…or, should I say, Mistress?’ said Miss Horsfall with a simper, and Habren agreed; when Miss Horsfall was properly clad, she smiled again.

  ‘Dear Rollo helped to…massage my curriculum vitae,’ she said. ‘Wrigley Scrubs was my idea, of course: the perfect, secluded dungeon — literally — for those in high places to indulge their flagellant tastes, whether taking, or dishing out the cane! The beauty of it is, it works. Decent girls, unlucky enough to be caught at mischief, really do understand corporal punishment. You’ll find that all our wardens, except Miss Coker aforementioned, are former detainees who have opted to serve extra time. They came as subs and my discipline has revealed their true dominant natures. Dominant females are straightforward in their virtuous contempt for the submissive girl, who is a spiteful, manipulative and selfish beast. Why, some subs are so sneaky, they pretend to be their opposite!’

  The door opened: Althea, Ignoge and Goiswinth burst into the room, falling promptly on the body of Habren and pinioning her to the floor. Ignoge’s hand clamped Habren’s mouth and stifled her protest, while Althea and Goiswinth ripped off her skirt and blouse, leaving Habren wriggling in her underthings, with Ignoge sitting on her head and the others on her pubis, haunches and ankles. Miss Horsfall rose and seated herself behind her desk.

  ‘The detainee Angarad Stark has, in some fit of delirium, feigned illness and escaped from the infirmary. She has managed to obtain clothing and a motorcar, to present herself with false documents and a truly incredible cock-and-bull story,’ she said.

  ‘Bitch!’ cried Ignoge, slapping Habren’s scarlet face.

  ‘She must experience peine forte et dure,’ said Miss Horsfall, ‘whipped back to sanity! For the moment, rope her on a rail and cane her on the bare to five dozen. Afterwards…I have a busy day, preparing for the television people, so continue her chastisement by your own consensus.’

  Althea Tite ripped off Habren’s knickers, tearing them in half, and sniffed them.

  ‘She’s wet, the dirty bitch!’ she exclaimed. ‘And freshly caned, mum…’

  ‘Those are routine cane-marks,’ said Miss Horsfall, smiling at Habren, ‘and wet knickers at the thought of punishment! So much for your deluded claim to be a domina, my dear Angarad.’

  ‘Why has she got an all-over suntan?’ said Goiswinth.

  ‘Some lotion from Oswald,’ snapped Ignoge. ‘Are we questioning governess’s orders?’

  Before Habren could shriek, the knickers were wadded in her throat, gagging her. The other girls wheeled a clothes-rail, four feet from the carpet, into place, leaving ample room on all sides; they slung Habren over the rail, bottom up and the rail biting her belly. Ignoge and Goiswinth used their waist ropes to bind the captive’s ankles and wrists together, like a calf for the branding, while Althea snapped heavy clamps on her nipples and cunt flaps, fastening them by chains pulled taut to the base of the rail. Habren was helpless to move, her titties and gash stretched by the clamps and the slightest wriggling liable to wrench her tender parts painfully. She squirmed, trembling and sobbing, and clenched her quivering arse-jellies, as three canes were lifted over her bare.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  The three canes lashed her naked buttocks in unison, and Habren squealed, her striped fesses squirming.

  ‘Mmm!’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Mmm!’

  Habren’s body shook, shuddering in her ropes and clamps, and clenching her croup tight, as deep cane-bites suffused her bare in a mottled pink glow.

  ‘You’ll recover your reason much faster, Angarad, if you take your punishment with your usual stoic silence,’ Miss Horsfall said, her arms agitated below her desktop.

  ‘Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!’ squealed Habren, violently shaking her head.

  ‘Of course, you’re pretending not to be you. But when you are back in the infirmary, for Miss Maclaren’s full treatment, on top of the thrashings that await, I think you’ll come to your senses.’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Each cane lashed Habren’s skin in a single weal, on the tender portion of her top buttock; her body jerked, legs and spine shuddering as one.

  ‘MMM!’

  Miss Horsfall’s stroking motions, below her desk, became more vigorous; her breath was harsh and her face a blush.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  As the three canes continued to weal Habren’s crimson bare arse-globes, her fesses writhed without pause, the naked skin darkening with deep bruises, and she bucked against her clamps and ropes, stretching her pouch flaps and titties to pale envelopes of flesh; her shrieks of protest became a single, despairing wail.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Mmm…’

  Miss Horsfall’s skirt rustled, as her feet parted wide beneath her desktop, and her stroking became rapid.

  ‘Of course, when Mrs Gaunt, our new — ah, overseer — arrives tomorrow, we may find all this has been a misunderstanding,’ she panted, her hands moving fast between her thighs, and
with a tiny seep of liquid dripping down her quivering nylons. ‘But, of course, it is invariably a misunderstanding that brings girls to us…’

  The three top strokes chuckled, as they caned Habren’s dark blue weals, nearing her tariff of sixty.

  ‘Angarad still pisses herself during a strong beating,’ panted Miss Horsfall. ‘I do hope she’s not going to spoil my carpet any more than she has — look at her ooze!’

  Fifty-seven strokes had been laid; come dripped openly from Habren’s swollen red gash flaps on to the carpet.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  The final three cuts took her vertically, straight in the arse-cleft, and slicing both her anus bud and the inner slit of her pouch.

  ‘MMM!’ Habren screamed, as a jet of yellow piss spat from her writhing cunt, spraying the three caners, to gleam in a steaming pool beneath the flogging rail.

  ‘Ah! Ah! Ah!’ gasped Miss Horsfall, her eyes fluttering, and her arms trembling between her thighs. ‘Ahh…’

  ‘Should we advise Miss Maclaren, mum?’ said Goiswinth. ‘About this slut’s escape.’

  ‘No, no,’ gasped Miss Horsfall. ‘Just attend to her further discipline and report. I’d like her to look good for the cameras.’

  ‘With respect, mum,’ said Althea, ‘you told us to prepare a soft scenario for the BBC…mild spanking on the panties and suchlike. Angarad Stark will need treatment of more than a few hours and I’m not sure her bum will look — well, very soft.’

  Miss Horsfall’s glistening wet fingers touched her lips.

  ‘How naughty of me!’ she cried. ‘How remiss, to forget to tell you — we have a second, in depth, televisual documentary tomorrow, by the satellite channel CPTV, serving the more discerning public. Mr Marcus Dodd and his delightful wife Bee are coming up from their Teddington studios, along with Miss Tamsin Pollecutt and her friend Will Cragg, manager of Metawear, a subsidiary of our new owners Gauntco, so its director Mr Rollo Cragg informs me. My, we shall all be one flagellant family…’

  13

  Labyrinth

  Angarad shivered in the darkness, lit only by the candles held by Amy Patel and Belinda Garce. Her bare breasts were pimpled with cold, the nipples stiff and she kept hoisting her only clothing, a sackcloth dress that billowed around her bare feet, but slipped, exposing the top of her bumcleft: a prison ‘shame dress’. Amy laughed.